Dark Paradise
by Michelle
Summary: Natasha is feeling objectified after a mission and takes out her frustrations on Clint.


_This was written for the kink-bingo prompt "Worship", and though I am not sure if I hit the right buttons, I hope I at least semi-filled the prompt properly!_

_Special thanks to Sarah for cheerleading and suggesting several of the sexier bits of this piece. Love you! Thanks also to dinosaur for catching my error 33!_

_Finally, I've very obviously had the song "Dark Paradise" by Lana Del Rey stuck in my head while I wrote this, so if you're the type of person who enjoys such things, I suggest listening to that while reading._

_As ever, I love feedback! You guys make all of this worth doing!_

* * *

"I hate this," she said, storming into his room and throwing her shoes down.

He looked up mildly from his book. "You okay?" he asked, and immediately discovered that he'd made a tactical error. She wasn't in the mood for talk.

Her eyes were blazing, dark pools of anger and resentment. "Next time," she said, "You get to seduce the rich guy."

He held in the laugh that threatened, opted instead to put his paperback on the table next to the couch. He watched her uncertainly as she crossed the room to him, shucking her clothes as she went, until she stood before him in her underwear, her bare knees brushing against his jean-clad ones.

Now that she was close, he could see her eyes, and he understood. It had been a while since he'd seen her like this, since she'd come to him wound up and stymied, looking to take out her frustrations.

Ever since New York, since Loki, they've been in some strange, new place, a kind of limbo fraught with tension and simmering desire, the kind of desire that swelled up without warning, swallowed you up and wrapped you inside a cocoon. They'd been slow before, but just as often, they'd been rough, almost brutal at times. Now, when they came together, invariably it was slow, almost hesitant, as if they were afraid the other was made of glass and breathing wrong would topple them to the ground to shatter. It wasn't bad by any stretch of the imagination; it had done more for him than the hours of SHIELD mandated therapy, in fact, but there had been uncertainties where there hadn't been before.

Uncertainties like where they stood, now that they'd saved the world and decided that sleeping together meant more than just passing out in the same bed after sex.

"I just . . ." She started, then cussed floridly in the strange mixture of Russian and English that was all her own. Wringing her hands uselessly, she looked at him with a question in her eyes.

He blinked at her, nodded his understanding and permission, ceded his control. He had been here before, just as often as she had, full of pent up rage and feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. She needed this, needed _him_, and he could never deny her anything.

Maybe, just maybe, that she still came to him instead of working it out at the gym, maybe that made his heart clench. Maybe, just maybe it made him want to grab on and never let go.

And maybe, just maybe, judging from the way she slipped into his bed at night and the way she clutched at him when she had yet another green-tinged nightmare, maybe she felt the same way.

She didn't move any closer toward him, so he nodded again, more clearly this time, and she acknowledged his acquiescence with a growl. Her lips crashed down over his, hungry, seeking, as if searching for something inside of him.

Maybe she was just searching for him.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, and then straightened and tugged him closer until his nose was pressed against her belly. He nuzzled her, breathed her in, and drew his hands up the back of her thighs, squeezing the firm flesh there.

She made a strange, choked noise when he dipped his tongue into her navel, so he did it again, and then licked a path lower. Her grip in his hair tightened almost to the point of pain when he brushed against her mound, and he repeated the action, eliciting a squeak from her that did strange things to his guts.

There was a big part of him that still didn't quite believe that she would come here for this, that she wanted him. That part of him expected her to come to her senses at any moment, turn around, and walk back out the door, leaving him alone and aching. It was that part of him that clutched her closer, that made him dig his fingers into her warm flesh, made him latch on to her like she was his only anchor in a storm.

Perhaps she was at that, if he were to believe the things she said to him at night when he screamed awake from his own dreams, from the memories of what he did before she knocked Loki out of his head. He was pretty sure he was going to struggle with those nightmares for the rest of the shit show he called his life, but when she was there to whisper sweet comforts in his ear, it wasn't quite so bad.

He tongued at her through the fabric of her panties, relishing the taste of sweat mixed up with the saltiness of her pussy, enjoying the way she leaned into him and the flex of her thigh muscles beneath his hands.

"Clint," she murmured, and he couldn't take it any longer, dug his fingers into her hips and dragged her closer still, nudging the thin fabric aside with the tip of his nose and getting a good, long taste of her. He fucking loved the way she moved on his tongue, the way her clit stood to attention and twitched a little when he lathed it.

His dick behaved predictably, and he grew impossibly hard, reacting to the way she held him against her core by her grip in his hair. He swept his tongue back and forth over her clit, held her panties aside with one finger for better access.

She began to writhe against his face, bent her knee and lifted her foot to the couch so he could get closer. He could feel her legs start to tremble, could feel her orgasm building on his tongue, but she hovered at the edge, never quite getting there.

He could feel the frustration coming off her in waves, knew her well enough to recognize that she was rapidly approaching her breaking point. He couldn't stand it, hated to see her suffer, so even though he sort of dreaded her reaction, he tapped her belly and ordered her to relax. Without warning, he found himself on his back, pressed into the cushions with her crouched low over his head, her panties mysteriously gone.

"Fuck," she hissed, and he shoved two fingers inside her and twisted, added another finger and pumped. He'd never been so hard, never been so turned on as he was in this moment with her grinding down on his face, and dammit, he fucking loved her.

Shit.

Well, he figured, at least his mouth was too busy to let that revelation escape, and then there wasn't time to ponder it more because she was coming at last, pulsing on his tongue and around his fingers, pressing herself against his mouth, and even if he couldn't breathe, per se, there was no way he would rather go than to be suffocated between her legs.

At last, she carefully shifted herself backward until she was tucked into his side on the narrow couch. She kissed him then, her hands playing with his face and neck, and he couldn't help his body's automatic reaction to thrust against her, even if all he actually wanted was to be petted by her.

She chuckled against his mouth, her foul mood starting to lift. "Patience, Barton."

She stood briefly, helped him to a sitting position, and then slid into his lap, her legs on either side of his, and when she moved against him, he felt himself start to come apart at the seams.

God, she was hot, no, fucking _perfect_, and he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on the whole damn planet that she wanted to be here with him like this. He still couldn't fathom her interest in him, not really, couldn't figure out what he'd done right in his life that led to him having a horny Natasha Romanoff in his lap, wet and breathless and grinding down on his cock.

She didn't talk as she rubbed against him, pushing him back into the cushions and holding him down with her deceptively strong arms. He started to reach up, wanted to put his hands back on her, but he'd barely ghosted his hands up her spine when she stopped him.

She grabbed his hands, tugged them over and behind his head, then held them still. She tugged his t-shirt over his head, caught his wrists up neatly in the fabric, and she fixed him with a pointed look.

"Stay."

He had a firmer read now on the situation, had finally figured out her expectations, and he couldn't say that he was disappointed. She didn't often get like this, didn't often want to play out the role she so often so used in the field, but she was good at it, good at bending him to her will.

As much as he enjoyed being on the other end of things, as much as he enjoyed holding her down and making her squirm, drawing out her pleasure and making her come until it hurt, he liked having the tables turned. He liked it when she took over, liked it when she took the reins and told him what to do.

So even though he could have gotten free, could have easily slipped the bonds of cotton about his wrists, he kept his hands still as she rid him of his jeans. He tried to be quiet while he watched her work; he wanted to be the silent, compliant man he knew she wanted right now, but he couldn't help the groan of pleasure that rippled up out of him as she sank down onto his cock.

It was over almost before it started, so fixated was he on the way her tits looked as they bounced in his face and how she quaked and pulsed around him, her slick heat gripping him, enclosing him as she raised and lowered herself on his lap.

She was beautiful in her frustration, biting her lip and flushing, straining with urgency toward her rapidly approaching completion. He struggled internally with everything he had to make sure that she got there, that she wasn't disappointed in him. She had given too much of herself in the past for him to want to do anything other than be there for her, and he needed this almost as much as she did.

She started to cry out, a wordless whimper of meaningless syllables tumbling out over her lips, and she leaned backward in his lap, arching her back so deeply he was afraid she might fall. He tugged his hands free then, caught her to his chest as she came around him. It was the way she buried her face in his neck and clung to him as much as it was the way she fluttered around him that set him off, and he saw stars for a minute as his brain shorted out when he joined her in ecstasy.

When he could see straight, he noticed that the edge of madness that had been hovering around her eyes was gone, but the dark look was still there, a look he was well familiar with.

He only knew the barest outline of the mission she'd been sent on. Something about illegal weaponry and HYDRA all wrapped up under the photogenic veneer of Roland Alston, local media darling. He knew Natasha had been sent on an intelligence gathering mission. From the dress that now lay in a puddle under his coffee table and her earlier outburst, he could guess at the rest. He had seen her in action the world over, knew all too well how much she hated the necessary objectification that came with her job.

"Can you tell me about it?" he asked.

She looked away, unsure and frustrated. "No . . . I mean, it's classified."

He tugged her closer to him, tucked her head under his chin. "Gotcha."

She breathed out audibly. "No . . . dammit. I don't . . ." she pushed away from him then, came to rest beside him on the couch. She was quiet for a moment, stared at her hands uncertainly. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke. "I'm tired of being the bait, Clint. I'm tired of dangling myself in front of the target."

He handed her his discarded t-shirt so she could wipe herself off. "I can't say I blame you. I'm kind of tired of it, myself." He raised an eyebrow. "Though I probably shouldn't tell you that. I like my balls where they are."

She smirked, then patted him on the thigh. "I like them where they are, too, you know." She looked away, and he had the impression that she was afraid to meet his eyes.

"What if . . ." she started, then tried again. "What if I'm done with SHIELD?"

He thought about it for a moment, the implications of that statement. When he'd brought her in all those years ago, there had never been a question that she would, that she _could_ ever be done with SHIELD. When she came in, it had been for life, the same as him.

But now, SHIELD was different, the _world_ was different, and maybe being a part of something like the Avengers meant that they didn't have to be at the beck and call of Nick Fury and the shadowy organization he worked for.

He didn't know what to think, didn't know what to say, except that he knew he would follow her to the ends of the earth.

Shit, hadn't she already done the same for him?

He rubbed a hand firmly across his face, then took her hands in his. "If you're done, I am, too."

She blinked at him, as if she hadn't expected the response, as if she had expected him to say something else or try to convince her to stay.

She spoke at last. "You would do that?"

He smiled at her, touched her cheek. "Yes."

Her brow wrinkled. "Why?"

"You have to ask?"

She opened her mouth only to close it again, and he could practically see the debate raging in her head. They weren't good at this, he and Natasha; they didn't know how to talk about regular feelings like hunger or fatigue, so it wasn't surprising that she would find herself unable to speak when he as good as declared himself to her.

She eventually just kissed him instead of responding, and against his better judgment, he let himself be distracted.

She dragged him down when she lay backward on his couch, and he came to rest between her thighs. Breaking their kiss, he asked, "What do you want?"

She bit her lip, hesitant.

"You can tell me, sweetheart," he said, then began kissing a line up her jaw to her ear. "Please tell me. Let me make you feel good."

He drew her earlobe into his mouth and skimmed his hand up her torso to play with one breast, enjoying the weight and feel of it in his hand. And because he was a childish idiot, he told her as much.

"I love how you feel," he said, tweaking her nipple and enjoying the gasp that accompanied his action. He twisted his neck, kissed the underside of her chin, darting his tongue out to taste her sweat. "I love how you taste."

She cursed at that, dragged her leg up around his hip and thrust her pelvis against him, muttering his name and cursing gods he'd never heard of.

"And fuck, baby, I love making you come," he whispered hoarsely against her throat. "Tell me what you want. Please let me make you come."

The hint of begging, the plea in his voice must have jarred something loose because her uncertainty vanished.

"I want you to go down on me again," she ordered, lust thick in her voice, and he felt himself stir at the heat in her voice. "I want you to fuck me with your mouth."

He closed his eyes for a moment to gain an ounce of control and swallowed once, then again. Fuck, he didn't deserve her. But there she was, naked and aroused, telling him to put his mouth on her, and how could he say no to that?

He began kissing and sucking his way down her body, pausing at all of his favorite parts – the hollow of her throat, the dip between her breasts, the scar along her ribs where he'd shot her the first time they met. She hissed and groaned every time his mouth found her flesh, arched up against him when he took one full breast into his mouth and sucked the nipple between his teeth.

Her breath hitched when he paused too long at her breasts, and she shot him a dark look from underneath hooded eyes. "Lower," she ordered, and he peeled himself away from her rosy tips to settle between her thighs.

She was glistening, her pussy slick with her own moisture and his, and even if he'd never admit it to her, this was definitely on his list of favorite parts. Natasha was beautiful everywhere, sure, but like this she was stunning, completely naked with her legs spread wide, inviting him to use his mouth on her most sensitive area.

Long ago, years before aliens and magic had destroyed New York, she'd explained in lurid detail what the act meant to her, how she'd never let anyone else, never _wanted_ anyone else to touch her like this, and it thrilled him to know that he was the only one who was allowed to worship at the altar of her sex. He stuck his tongue out, licked her tentatively and waited for her reaction before going further.

He wasn't disappointed.

She grabbed his hair, pulling it the same way she'd done earlier, and then she arched up off the couch. Confronted with a face full of pussy, he breathed her in, opened his mouth to her. He loved her fragrance, more now since his own scent was mixed up with hers, their fluids mingled, and he attacked her with gusto.

He sucked on her clit at first, drawing her labia into his mouth, then circling around her swollen clit. She sighed deeply, and he felt her start to relax, her muscles loosening below him. He kept up the steady pressure, swirling his tongue over and down, then nudged at her opening. She hitched her legs over his shoulders and massaged his scalp as he worked, and he could sense the moment that she changed, the moment that she stopped just being along for the ride and started to actively fuck his face.

He loved it.

She dug into his scalp, scraped her nails around his ears and down his neck, and fuck he hoped she left a mark there, a reminder in the days to come of this perfect moment. She moved restlessly against his face, her feet digging into his shoulders, and her thighs wrapped so tightly around his face that he found it hard to catch his breath. He shot a hand up her torso to pinch her nipple, and it sent her over the edge. This time when she came, it was accompanied by a gush of warm fluid that slicked down over his face and chin, and he rejoiced at the rare reaction.

He grinned up at her when she stopped shuddering, but she blushed and looked away. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached out to her, tucking his thumb under her chin.

"Hey, stop that," he said. "Don't do that."

She pushed away from him, started to draw herself up off the couch, and he was after her like lightening, catching up to her in a few quick strides. He grabbed her shoulder, spun her around, let himself feel the small amount of relief that accompanied the realization that she was letting him do this.

"Nat," he said, drawing her into his arms. "What's going on?"

She leaned in, rested the top of her head against his chest, hiding her eyes from him. "I shouldn't have acted like that. I shouldn't brought the job back with me and forced you to . . ."

He cut her off with a sharp laugh, caressed her cheek with the side of his hand. "That's the job talking, Nat, not you. You honestly think you had to force me into anything? That you've ever had to force me to do anything?"

She looked up at him, and he could see the fear lurking behind her eyes, knew she was afraid of what he was saying. Fuck, he was afraid, too, but he blustered on, unable to stop the words from vomiting out.

"I will do anything for you. Anything," he punctuated vehemently. "Haven't you figured that out by now?"

She blinked, still silent, but she was breathing hard, and she wasn't running away, so he just went for it.

"I love you."

She stared at him for a long minute, unblinking and uncomprehending, and he watched her try to process that bit of information. Then she was nodding, a single tear working its way out of the corner of one eye, and she leapt at him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him like he was the air she breathed.

She dragged him off to his bedroom then, and when she pressed him down into the mattress this time, she kept her eyes glued to his and his hand pressed to her heart and the sex was slow and shattering, just like it had been lately except that it wasn't, not at all. He thought he got it now, that maybe he'd figured out at last what she'd been trying to tell him for all these long months, what she couldn't tell him with her words.

So when he came apart beneath her, sobbed out her name in between confessions of love, he wasn't really shocked by her response.

"Took you long enough."


End file.
